Sherlock - The Reichenbach Theory
by guardian of olympus
Summary: After rewatching the Final Series 2 episode, some things came to my attention and I wrote this. It isn't scientific, nor mathematic, but It is simply down to how I think the writers wrote it. This is from Sherlock's point of view. Looking forward to the new episode!


As Sherlock stared at the documents, he now understood it all. The web of lies Moriarty had now spun himself, each one completely under his control, the thin tendrils spreading the width and breadth of London; now all he had to do was wait, Sherlock would slip up soon, he knew, and if he didn't slip up there was always a person who could give him a quick push in the right direction, and he would get caught, wriggling like a fly and no amount of clever deducing could stop the web from tightening, wrapping him thick with conspiracy until no one would be able to see the real Sherlock, not even himself. He could feel the web extending around him, down the streets, slipping down the alleyways, though the windows and even into the minds of the people themselves. The tabloids had him by the throat, as did Moriarty. He now knew it all, every single shred of his story. Sherlock knew who was to blame, it wasn't hard, even Watson could figure it out, he knew what Moriarty was planning and he knew what was going to happen. The conversation replayed in his head.

"_The fall…." Moriarty whistled, his eyes descending like he was watching a figure fall from a height. "I owe you a fall…. I. Owe. You…."_

"The fall…" The thought had been in his head all this time, eating away at his mind like a maggot, he had always known that was Moriarty was planning but now he knew what Moriarty was going to do. Oh he was good, telling his prey their fate and then watching with utter _glee_ as they struggled to fight it, only wrapping themselves up in it more and more. The tapping, the binary code. It wasn't important, he knew that. Did Moriarty think he was _stupid_? A single line of digits couldn't unlock anything important, maybe one bank account but that wasn't what Moriarty wanted. There was a set of levels in thievery, there was pickpocketing, petty theft, bank robbery, art heists and even kidnapping, but Moriarty was above them all, he wasn't just a thief, he was an _expert_, pulling the wool over everyone's eyes whilst he stole the most important thing of all. The Truth. With the truth like putty in his hands he had the entire country like a puppet on a string. A lie could bring down kings, could destroy anyone at the mutter of a single sentence, send a government crumbling with a carefully placed _word._ And now Moriarty was king. King of the liars. Sherlock twitched a slight smile of admiration for his nemesis, but it was soon overwhelmed with hatred for the man. He wasn't a spider. No, that was too good for him. He was not a spider. He was a cockroach, repulsive to some, beautiful to others, kings of hiding and masters at survival. You could see one, not kill it, then, a week later, and find a nest of them under the floorboards and _that_ was how Moriarty worked. He wasn't stupid. He was on par with Sherlock, everyone knew that. Two great masterminds battling over the centuries, neither backing down.

He could see the scenario playing out in his head, what Moriarty would do, what Sherlock would say and how it would end. He shuddered. He stretched a finger out and tapped one of his pencils, edging it back into line. Suddenly, it hit him. The solution. He knew how he would win. Moriarty may be in control of the web but he hadn't taken into account one small factor and that is what would make Sherlock win. Moriarty may be intelligent but he was very, very predictable. If Sherlock played his mind game, made it seem like he was winning, like Sherlock wasn't all he made out to be, then he would have the upper hand. That was the thing with maniacs, they were too much inside their own egos, looking down on everyone and seeing them as so idiotic that he couldn't see them faking it.

"You were wrong, Molly." He said. Molly jumped, spinning round to see the familiar silhouette standing in the shadows. "You do matter."

"Sherlock, you scared me." Molly exclaimed, breathing deeply to still her thumping heart. She looked at Sherlock, his eyes dark and foreboding. "What's wrong?"

"I think I'm going to die." Sherlock told her, ominously. His heart weighed heavy with those words. The four words no person wish to say. Molly saw this and put her hand on his sleeve, trying to show her concern.

"What do you need?" She asked. Both Sherlock and John meant a lot to her and, she knew, that she would do anything to help them.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, as if formulating a plan.

"You." He said.

Sherlock and Moriarty were on the roof, face to face, their noses almost pressed against one another as Moriarty came up to his face, admitting his plan with wide, exited eyes. They had been talking for a while now, Sherlock feigning ignorance rather convincingly, and Moriarty had just lapped it up, accusing him of being boring. Inside his head, Sherlock had snorted. Him? Normal? That was an insult to his intellect but it didn't sting one bit, but he showed the sting in his face. He wanted Moriarty to receive satisfaction, play on his egomania, blinding him, leading the puppeteer by his own strings. It had worked like a dream. Pretend not to have figured out Moriarty's plan to kill him off in a neat suicide job? He had worked it out long before he had fully let on. Of course he was going to do this. He had ruined his name, his reputation, turned the newspapers then his own allies against him, even tried to persuade Sherlock himself that it was all a lie. What was he going to do after that? Let him live in the outskirts of society, waiting for him to make his triumphant return with dignity built up once more to topple Jim Moriarty, or Richard Brook as he was now calling himself, from the public eye once more? No. He wasn't going to fall for that. No, he wanted Sherlock at the point of no return, and beyond it. And what better point than in the afterlife, where the only redemption was a thorough investigation fifty years after Richard Brook was dead and gone and by then it would be too late to do anything except for the public to curse it's stupidity for following the tabloids like sheep off a very steep cliff.

"You're right Sherlock. While I'm still alive, you have a way out…." Then the solemnness was replaced with a glint in Moriarty's eye, as he pulled the hidden gun out of his pocket, shooting himself in the head. As the blast rung out through the air, Moriarty crumpled to the floor. Sherlock stared, shell-shocked at what he had just seen. He had been expecting it, but the actual real-life event was traumatising to watch. He chuckled; maybe he should ask John for the number to his physiatrist, but no. Not now. He knew John must not know. He must remain ignorant for as long as Moriarty's cronies were still around the area and who knows how long that would take before they found their Master was dead and gone. Two, maybe three years? No. For now, the gunmen were still at large.

As the gunshot had sounded, Molly had taken her cue. She burst through the door to the roof, carrying a large briefcase, bulging at the seams. She knelt down next to the body opening the suitcase, pulling out a number of things. Among them, a latex mask, a black wig and a coat, pretty much identical to the one Sherlock was wearing. In a few minutes time they would be indistinguishable, except under close scrutiny, and she and her team would make sure that that wouldn't happen. The carting of the body would be as quick as they could make it and, if Sherlock was right, John would be none the wiser.

"Molly, you take care of Moriarty. I have to make sure that this works." Sherlock told her, turning away and walking towards the edge of the roof.

"Be careful!" She told him. He smiled at her.

"I'm always careful."

John watched as the silhouette of his friend shifted slightly on the rooftop.

"…This is my note, John. That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"

"Sherlock…"

"Stay there. Keep your eyes fixed on me." Sherlock told him sharply. If John moved, then his paid man would miss his mark and the whole plan would be in jeopardy.

He had chosen this spot for a reason, on this side on the building as it meant the sun was behind him. The switch would be almost unseeable, even through sunglasses.

He looked back as Molly. She was done, lifting the dead body of Moriarty up, dragging it over behind Sherlock, and keeping out of sight behind him.

"I'm going to jump."

"Sherlock…"

"Now." He told Molly, making sure that he wasn't heard in the phone.

He jumped. Molly through the body as hard as she can.

"SHERLOCK!"

The two fell through the air, but John couldn't see that. He was too busy running forwards.

Sherlock landed heavily in the truck, the pile of mattresses hidden among the crates concealing him from the street. The body had also struck the ground. From where it was laying you could believe that the still-bleeding gunshot shot wound was an injury made on impact with the pavement. He saw John running. There was his mark. There was the cyclist, perfectly on time. They made impact. John fell, hitting his head badly. Sherlock watched with a heavy heart as he picked himself up groggily and stumbled his way over to the crowd of people swarming round the body. Half-concussed, John was held back from the body, probably by one of Molly's nurse friends, brought in on the elaborate scheme. Sherlock was glad some people still believed in him, even some who weren't his friends. As the team of nurses carted the body away, John was led by a few good Samaritans into the main foyer of the hospital, shouting for Sherlock the whole way. Sherlock's heart ached for his friend, wanting to run to him and tell him the truth, tell him to stop crying. But he couldn't. It was the point of the entire scheme that no one bar a precious few knew of his survival. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes was dead. Even to his brother, and even to his best friend.

He left London. It wouldn't do well for the charade if he was seen walking around, alive and well, so he 'borrowed' the keys to one of Mycroft seldom used country houses and moved in. He didn't know how long he'd stay there for, but he just hoped his brother didn't come cold calling any time soon. He'd have the fright of his life otherwise.

He did, however, run one last errand to run, travelling to a quiet graveyard in the New Forest where he was technically buried, an empty oak box lying in the cold ground. It was a shame to waste such as expensive wood, but John had insisted on it. He watched his friend now, talking to his headstone. It was almost comical, knowing he was talking to thin air. He wanted to shout. JOHN! I'M OVER HERE! But he couldn't. He remained behind the tree, watching his friend try to fight back the tears.

"Just… one more thing, Sherlock. One more miracle. Don't be…. Dead." John sobbed back the final word, shattering Sherlock's heart like glass. As John walked away, Sherlock continued to watch. He knew, no matter how many years it took, he would return. John would be surprised to see him. He'd probably hit him but it would be good to see his friend happy again. He would return sometime in the future, back to 221B Baker Street.


End file.
